The Day - Geoffrey Brock


It hangs on its

                stem like a plum

at the edge of a

               darkening thicket.


It’s swelling and

               blushing and ripe

and I reach out a

               hand to pick it


but flesh moves

               slow through time

and evening

               comes on fast


and just when I

               think my fingers

might seize that

               sweetness at last


the gentlest of

               breezes rises

and the plum lets

               go of   the stem.


And now it’s my

               fingers ripening

and evening that’s

               reaching for them.